


The Penguin Poets

by mydogwatson



Series: PostcardTales III [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, M/M, Or the meaning of love, Pillow Talk, Romance, The meaning of poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 04:10:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9640151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: An early morning conversation in bed.





	

**Author's Note:**

> It goes without saying that I like every story I post here, because if I didn't and if I didn't think it was as good as I could get it, it wouldn't be posted at all. But this one sort of snuck up on me and I am really pleased with it. All I can do now is hope you enjoy it as well.
> 
> That's it.

“Love is prose, not poetry, you know.”

John shifted his gaze downward just a bit so that he could look at Sherlock, who had his head resting on his lover’s chest. “Beg your pardon?” was what John said. Sounded slightly less idiotic than ‘huh?’ he thought.

Sherlock, of course, sighed at the terrible tedium of having to repeat himself. “I said, that love is prose not poetry.”

“Okay,” John replied quizzically, not really sure how else he was supposed to respond to such an unexpected [unprecedented?] statement. He was not, after all, any more inclined to muse about the nature of Love during a post-coital haze than was Sherlock Holmes.

At any rate, he was currently a bit distracted by the fact that five lightly callused violinist fingers were dancing lightly across his belly, moving in time to a tune that only one of them was hearing. As usual.

Sherlock seemed to realise that John was floundering a bit [as usual] and took pity on him. The fingers slowed and then settled into a gentle petting. “I simply meant that words like---“ Here he paused, his brow wrinkling a little in thought, as he apparently tried to pull something out of the bloody Palace. John was content to watch and wait because Sherlock Thinking was sometimes adorable to look at. That word, of course, had been banned in 221B months ago, after a half-asleep John had once murmured it in relation to Sherlock’s occasional slight lisp.

The wrinkled brow smoothed. “Words like ‘how do I love thee, let me count the ways’ might be romantic to some people.” 

Who besides this man could make ‘romantic’ sound like an epithet? John knew that he had himself a one-of-a-kind here.

“But not you?”

Sherlock huffed.

Now John’s fingers were also moving, gently trailing through curls that were still a little bit damp. There had been some sweating earlier. Sherlock Holmes might disdain romance as being nothing more than a pretty, albeit useless, concept, but he had no problem with enthusiastic sex. If John had been the type, he would have popped into the nearest church and lighted a candle in gratitude for that fact.

“So,” he said, realising how many of his sentences started just that way. “Sherlock Holmes does not believe in romance?” John could not decide if he should be amused or disappointed by this revelation.

Sherlock turned his head, curls tickling John’s chest, and fixed him with a one-eyed glare. “Just because I do not accept society’s construct of what constitutes ‘romance’ does not mean I am disdainful of the whole idea.”

Clearly, the post-coital haze was gone completely. John knew that he should be grateful that his bed partner was still actually _in_ the bed, instead of dashing off to check the kidney soaking in lemonade that was stored on the top shelf of the refrigerator. [He hadn’t asked. He never asked anymore.]

John rested back against the headboard, bringing Sherlock with him. Outside, Baker Street was coming awake. The rubbish truck was emptying the bin in front of Speedy’s. Next would be 221. The men always hurried with that and wisely they never peered too closely at what they were collecting. John tipped them nicely at Xmas.

“So if Elizabeth Barrett Browning doesn’t do it for you, what does?” he asked idly, mostly just to sustain the mood and the moment.

Sherlock nudged at John’s hand until his fingers resumed their meander through his curls. Then he thought for a moment. “I think…asking ‘would you like a cup of tea?’ is romantic. Or ‘can I bandage that for you?’”

John couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped and, as expected, Sherlock was offended.

“Are you laughing at me?”

He pressed his lips to Sherlock’s ear. “No,” he breathed, “I am adoring you.”

There was a pause before Sherlock spoke again.

“When you tell me about your day. When you tell Anderson and Donovan to shut up.” Sherlock was speaking carefully, which meant this was all very important to him. “When you nag me to eat or sleep.”

John blinked a bit.

They were both quiet for a few moments, listening to the distant drone of Mrs Hudson’s television as she started her day.

John could tell that Sherlock was starting to think about leaving the bed and checking that kidney or looking for a case on the blog or calling Lestrade to demand a case [and it had better be an interesting one] before the other man has even had his first cuppa.

So before that could happen, John moved to tip them both over so that he was lying on top of Sherlock and their naked bodies were pressed together, both a bit sticky with semen and sweat from earlier. He pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s left nipple and then one on the right. His voice when he spoke was pitched to a lower tone than usual. Not quite Captain Watson, but not entirely Doctor Watson either. Maybe just John Hamish Watson, flatmate and friend and lover.

“But in my arms till break of day,  
Let the living creature lie,  
Mortal, guilty, but to me  
The entirely beautiful.  
We must love one another or die.”

Sherlock was silent.

John pulled back just enough so that he could look into the turbulent grey-green eyes. “W.H. Auden,” he said. “More to my taste than Browning.”

Sherlock took John into his arms and pulled him close again, still not speaking, but only rocking a bit back and forth.

Just below them, a car horn blasted along Baker Street suddenly and Mrs Hudson, startled, dropped something [probably a teacup] and it smashed to pieces on the floor.

John moved his lips against Sherlock’s neck. “Would you like a cup of tea?” he whispered.

“I love you, too,” Sherlock replied.

**Author's Note:**

> Title From: The Penguin Poets: W.H. Auden


End file.
